


There's Something About Mary

by that_1_incident



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Madam Spellman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 06:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_1_incident/pseuds/that_1_incident
Summary: Zelda's the figurehead, the conduit, and however heavy the head that wears the crown, the head that wears the witch’s hat is heavier still, and no one knows that better than she does.(Or, the one when Zelda needs a night off and Mary provides it.)





	There's Something About Mary

**Author's Note:**

> This is saved on my Google Drive as _Am I really going to call this There's Something About Mary_ and the answer, my friends, is yes. (S/o to [skatingsplits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/works) for assuaging my initial hesitation with a vehement "Definitely fucking do it!!!" – you a real one.)
> 
> More Madam Spellman can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523309), [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575416), [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781785), [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922571), [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17299514), [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659382), and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18279485).

Zelda doesn’t like Mary Wardwell.

Granted, Zelda isn’t exactly a paragon of welcoming people into her life with open arms at the best of times, but there’s something about the other woman, something she can’t quite put her finger on except to say she doesn’t like it – or Mary in general.

And for as long as the particulars of her distaste remain just beyond her grasp, Zelda will find Mary even more insufferable than otherwise (which, frankly, is a feat). Given the sheer volume of potential irritants to analyze – the velvet purr of her voice, the overt luster of her shiny dark hair, to say nothing of her unashamed penchant for clothing that clings in all the right places – there's no wonder Zelda hasn’t narrowed down the list quite yet. It certainly promises to be an undertaking of significant proportions, but until she can identify the root of the problem, it’ll feel, in a way, like Mary’s winning. And Zelda can’t have that.

\--

Silently stewing behind her newspaper as Sabrina chatters on about a supremely disinteresting and utterly inconsequential mortal-world event that had occurred, is occurring, or will occur at some point in the future, Zelda surmises that a core component of the issue is how severely unexceptional Mary is – or, at least, should be. Ultimately, Zelda fancies that she understands Mary to the degree of feeling fairly confident in her ability to predict, if requested, even the most minute details of how Mary gets ready in the morning, down to the precise thought processes that machinate beneath those undulous waves of hair. 

As Zelda sees it, Mary prepares for the day like she's suiting up for battle, uses her sexuality as both a shield and a weapon designed to draw you in and spit you out. She’s at once saccharinely sanguine and ferocious to a fault, and a sense of danger crackles around her like the electric incandescence of the air seconds before the first bolt of lightning splits the sky in a summer storm.

Mary walks into a room knowing she can command it, gives the impression that nobody crossing her path is completely safe in her presence, because women like the two of them – women who’ve been around as long as they have, who look like they look – didn’t get to where they are today by accident. All of which is to say that Zelda’s confident her tricks are Mary's too, even the ones she hasn't used in decades that remain tucked in her arsenal regardless, spines straight, loins girded, eternally poised for an instantaneously swift deployment. Because Zelda hasn’t just seen the wizard behind the curtain, she _is_ the wizard, yet Mary has somehow managed to cast a spell on her nonetheless.

\--

In addition to trying to hone in on precisely what it is that makes Mary so violently intolerable, Zelda also has to worry about the not-inconsequential matter of the other woman's considerable influence over Sabrina. She's still unclear on how Mary was able to swoop in and seize her niece's unquestioning respect seemingly overnight, but the fact that the Spellmans couldn't exorcise Apophis without the teacher's involvement was surely part of it. Zelda experienced Mary's raw power for the first time that night as it pulsed through the room in extravagant currents, and a less prideful woman than she might have admitted to feeling intimidated. It had rapidly become apparent that Mary was – is – a force, that they needed her, that they likely will again, and Zelda hates that.

\--

Zelda is many things – a witch, a business-owner, a strong woman, a decidedly above-average lover – but before all that, she's an older sister and an aunt, which has often proven to be more of a curse than a blessing. She’s been the matriarch of her family for so long, it feels as if she were born into the role, destined for no more and no less than the Sisyphean struggles of finances and discipline, of raising her niece with an iron fist and not letting her guard down for a second, because she knows a weak defensive line is little more than an invitation. At this stage of her life, she's primed for being thrown mercilessly unto the breach at a moment's notice; serving as a sealed receptacle stuffed with the secrets that others in her orbit have taken to their graves; taking into account every single thing that no one else will stop to think about even if (and when) their lives depend on it; keeping the trains running on time and the hatches battened and the lives of those around her ticking like clockwork, for better or worse. One small slip on Zelda's part could mean the end of the dynasty, and the Spellmans were an endangered species even before her brother’s untimely death. And now she’s charged with guiding Sabrina along the Path of Night while her niece is beset by the temptations of a charmed if mortal existence everywhere she turns, and she'd just… she'd like some peace, that's all.

At the same time, Zelda knows she was built for warfare, forged in the fires of _Nobody else can do this but you_ and the crushing sense of duty that entails, but real witchcraft moves in silence and she in turn operates with effortless grace. After all, she was raised to aspire to the type of elegance that doesn’t break a sweat, because if she’s seen to be under any modicum of duress while she’s holding things together then she isn’t really holding them together at all. When it comes down to it, she’s the figurehead, the conduit, and however heavy the head that wears the crown, the head that wears the witch’s hat is heavier still, and no one knows that better than Zelda.

\--

To be fair (which Zelda often is not), if Hilda and Ambrose and even Sabrina knew how tenuously untenable things had been at certain times over the years, how desperately she's scrabbled to cling to the parts of herself that aren't first filtered through the persistently suffocating prisms of sister or aunt, her family members would assist her, she’s sure of it. Yet she will never tell them, and thus they will never know.

That's where Mary comes in, this woman, this teacher who showed up in their lives and won't leave, an alleged New Hampshire transplant with blood-red lips and Bette Davis eyes. Whenever she's in the other woman's presence, Zelda gets the uneasy sensation that Mary _sees_ her – that Mary's vantage point boasts an unobstructed view of Zelda as flayed-open and exposed as the bodies in the mortuary beneath her feet. It’s as if Mary's systematically removing not just Zelda's hard-won armor but the chain mail that lies underneath, summarily chipping through the careful mask that heretofore has only ever been slightly cracked at the edges. To put it another way, Mary makes her feel naked, which is disarming to say the least.

\--

When Mary first shows up on the Spellmans' doorstep while Sabrina isn't there, the timing of her visit hardly strikes Zelda as coincidental, and by her third appearance, Zelda's absolutely certain that none of this was anything other than meticulously planned. After all, if there's one tradition Sabrina and her friends are known to indulge in, it's going to Frightday Fest at the movie theater every... well, Friday, and Sabrina's even mentioned seeing Ms. Wardwell there on occasion, so the teacher obviously knows that they attend. 

And even more unnervingly, upon learning Sabrina isn't home, Mary... stays. The first time, she swans into the parlor without invitation and proceeds to focus every ounce of her unsettling gaze on Zelda, who's reading the Satanic Bible and immediately feels shockingly self-conscious. The second time, Mary perches at the kitchen table while Zelda's making tea and crosses her long legs at such an angle that she's practically begging Zelda's eyes to wander up her skirt. Zelda doesn't know why the other woman's there or what to do to make her go away, and whenever she tries to mention it, Mary does that breathy thing with her voice that Zelda considers to be one of the oldest tricks in the book. Indeed, Zelda would be profoundly unaffected by such a base maneuver but for the inconvenient truth that Mary's just so good at it. 

"Well," Mary says in a half-whisper, wide-eyed and unsubtle. "I'll just wait a bit longer, unless... that wouldn't be a problem, would it? I know Sabrina was so looking forward to my visit."

Zelda doesn't believe that last part in the slightest, but it's a low blow to use her family against her nonetheless and frankly, she's infuriated. Then, as if to add insult to injury, Mary says "Oh, dear..." as if realizing she's offended Zelda in some regard and she has _no_ idea how that happened and it was _never_ her intention. Zelda feels gaslit, and she doesn't appreciate it. 

What's more, the expression on Mary's face implies she knows exactly what she's doing, the net effect of which is to give Zelda the distinct impression that she's trying to play chess with half the pieces. Zelda's not used to such a dynamic, never learned how to deal with it in a manner that doesn't involve lashing out or shutting down or stalking off. She almost wonders whether the other woman had surreptitiously murmured a spell to throw her so thoroughly off her game, but she likes to think she'd have been observant enough to pick up on that. Unfortunately, it's altogether more plausible that she merely doesn't want to acknowledge the likelihood of Mary having this effect on her as a person, because that would mean things Zelda doesn't want it to mean. She simply _cannot_ allow herself to feel anything for Mary Wardwell beyond an enormous sense of disdain, which she believes to be the only acceptable reaction in light of the fact that the third time Mary shows up, she does so wearing a leather mini-dress flared at the hip. It has studs down the sides that catch the light when she moves, and its tantalisingly empty belt loops compel Zelda to imagine how it might feel to slide her fingers through them and pull Mary toward her. Her fingertips tingle faintly at the prospect.

"I'll thank you to leave now, actually," Zelda says haughtily, and Mary smiles as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. It's like this turn of events is what she'd been waiting for all along, as if they were in a staring contest and Zelda finally blinked, which doesn't make sense because Zelda's the one getting what she wants and yet it's Mary who seems triumphant.

"Don't you get tired of keeping up these pretenses?" 

The question falls from Mary's lips as breezily as if they're discussing the weather, and it comes as rather devastating to Zelda because the phrasing doesn't even give her the option to deny it, just assumes facts already in evidence that won't be argued either way. Zelda can't stand how transparent she is in Mary's eyes. 

"This is my _home_ ," Zelda protests, aghast. "You're a guest in this residence, Ms. Wardwell, and an unwelcome one at that, so I implore you to behave accordingly."

The other woman affixes her with a strange little smile. "Please, call me Mary." 

It's an unusual name for a witch; as Zelda understands it, Mary was the virgin selected by the False God (the Father) to bear the False God (the Son) while a third manifestation lingered somewhere nearby in the form of, if she recalls correctly, the Spirit. As is the case with most of the stories mortals tell themselves, Zelda finds the whole premise abjectly ludicrous.

"Well, _Mary_ ," she begins pointedly and with a tad more contempt than strictly necessary. "As I said, Sabrina won't be home for at least another couple of hours, so –"

"And your sister?"

Zelda narrows her eyes. The query sounds just a shade too casual for there not to be an ulterior motive lurking underneath, and as if the other woman can sense her hackles rising, Mary flutters her eyelashes in an exaggerated pantomime of innocence. 

"It would've been so lovely to catch you both together and tell you how well Sabrina's doing in school, that's all," she qualifies with a beatific look on her face that's no doubt intended to make Zelda feel positively certifiable for doubting her integrity in any shape or form.

"In… civics?" Zelda clarifies, raising an eyebrow. She's not entirely sure what civics is, but it's one of the many areas of study at Baxter High that she's certain would never make it onto any Dark Lord-sanctioned curriculum. 

"Yes," Mary says brightly, then echoes, "in civics."

Bizarrely, Zelda senses a hint of apprehension in the delivery, which she finds puzzling to say the least. She knows for a fact that Mary teaches civics to her niece, so Mary has nothing to prove – not in this particular regard, anyway – and certainly nothing to convince her of. 

"Well, that's wonderful," Zelda parries. "I'm sure my niece's abundant civics knowledge will serve her about as well in her daily life as algebra." 

Mary regales her with another odd smile, as if she's not the slightest bit offended that her professional life's work has just been written off like it's nothing. "We can only hope," she replies obliquely. "Now, where did you say your sister was?" 

Since Hilda got a job at that wretched little establishment downtown, she's consistently claimed the Friday evening shift, with the dual goals of keeping an eye on Sabrina and sneaking everyone free drinks. And Zelda isn't stupid – she knows Hilda's rather taken with the pitiable two-bit former local television personality who owns the place, for some un-Satan-ly reason.

"Hilda's out," Zelda responds, choosing to address the question vaguely but firmly. She reminds herself that Mary isn't entitled to any of this information, despite the other woman's apparently fervent belief to the contrary. 

"And," Mary persists, "your… is it your nephew? The one who's confined to the premises?"

" _Was_ confined," Zelda corrects before she can think to stop herself, and Mary grins like she's won something. 

"Ah, so you're alone." 

The problem is not Zelda being alone; the problem is Mary saying so as if it's _sad_. 

Now, Zelda doesn't mind her own company – in fact, she can envision few things better than sitting outside on the veranda with a newspaper and a nightshade tea (or something stiffer, depending on the time of day and how severely her family has been testing her). Yet at the same time, she can't shake the suspicion that the people in her life are moving on without her, that the ones she loves are slowly leaving her behind. The wider their orbits, the harder it will be to gather everyone together when the storm comes, and if there's one thing Zelda knows for sure, there'll always be another storm. 

So, yes, perhaps she's a tad touchy about the house's current state of near-desertion, but that doesn't excuse Mary's utter tactlessness. Which isn't to say Zelda's surprised by such behavior, as the other woman's proven herself many times over to be irritatingly supercilious at the best of times and incorrigibly intolerable at the worst. But still, as she's standing there in front of Zelda with her ruby-red lipstick and dark tresses, her blue eyes an unearthly shade of pale, the thought crosses Zelda's mind for a wild, impulsive second that Mary would be nice to come home to. 

Mary smirks as if she can hear what Zelda's thinking, and Zelda feels her face start to flush. 

"Which brings me back to my original question," Mary says smoothly. "Don't you get tired of keeping up these pretenses?"

Zelda opens her mouth to retort – she's not entirely sure what with, but it's bound to be clever and cutting and precisely what's required to put Mary in her place. The only problem is that Mary's regarding her with eyebrows raised and mouth quirked like she's intrigued to hear the fairy tale Zelda tells herself, the web she spins to distract from what's patently obvious to everyone around her, so Zelda purses her lips instead and refuses to make a sound. 

"The mental gymnastics you perform to contort the world into your desired mold don't really matter to me, of course," Mary assures her with a shrug. "Provided they don't compromise your ability to be a qualified guardian for Sabrina, that is." 

Zelda experiences the strangest sensation – something akin to the spontaneous combustion of white-hot rage and the shock of ice-cold water splashing her at great velocity – and Mary must see it in her expression because she takes a small step back. 

"I suppose I'd best be going, but please do tell Sabrina I'd like to speak with her." 

Zelda's too floored, too fuming to do anything but nod brusquely before she slams the door in Mary's face.

\--

When the following Friday rolls around, it brings with it a restlessness that Zelda can't seem to shake. The chill of the perpetually autumnal climate for which Greendale is known seems particularly bracing, and Salem, sensing trouble, persistently winds himself around the ankles of whichever Spellman is in his closest proximity at the time. Hilda almost trips over him twice, and Zelda's so irritated that she dispatches her sister to Cerberus Books almost two hours ahead of schedule despite still being annoyed that Hilda even works there in the first place.

Soon after Hilda departs, Zelda determines with chagrin that the dearth of any relatives underfoot is actually making things worse instead of better, but at this juncture, that can't be helped. Ambrose and his paramour will be at the Academy until Satan knows when, Hilda's unlikely to get home much before the witching hour, and if recent history is anything to go by, Sabrina will categorically refuse to show up until approximately ninety seconds before her curfew. Even Salem appears to have slunk off somewhere, not that Zelda would lower herself to lavish anything more than the barest minimum of attention on the familiar, especially with Sabrina already treating him far more like a pet than she should.

Zelda glares at the phone, which remains obstinately silent, then washes the dishes and makes everyone's beds without a shred of spellwork because she needs something to do with her hands. She's about to sit down with her Satanic Bible for the third time in as many days when the doorbell chimes. 

\--

Mary's absolutely devastating in a silky red dress and the type of heels that Zelda's more accustomed to seeing on a street corner than in a classroom. She wonders how the students at Baxter High are able to focus on their civics. 

"You're here for Sabrina, I suppose?" Zelda inquires in as bored a tone as she can muster – and she ends up sounding pretty damn disinterested, if she does say so herself. 

Mary tilts her head. "No, this time, I'm here for you."

Zelda thought she was prepared for anything Mary could throw at her – a breathy excuse, a practiced deflection, an outright dismissal of inconvenience caused to any and everyone in the vicinity – but Mary's words catch her off guard to the extent that every possible response stutters and dissipates in her throat. 

"Cat got your tongue?" Mary inquires lightly. "I knew there was something untrustworthy about that creature, but Sabrina is so very fond of him…"

"I'm fine," Zelda says abruptly, snapping herself out of her speechlessness. It simply won't do for her to have these lapses whenever someone pretty comes around. "But what could you possibly want with me?"

Mary looks up from under her lashes in a manner Zelda assumes is intended to be alluring, and which doesn't exactly fail in that regard. "It's less about what I want and more about what you need."

Zelda's eyebrows shoot up before she has the chance to temper her reaction. "Excuse me?"

"You're not at your best, Zelda. One must tend to oneself before attending to others. And doesn't the Dark Lord teach us to put ourselves first?" 

Zelda grits her teeth for a moment. "And what do you suggest, Ms. Wardwell?" she inquires icily, hoping in vain that her use of the teacher's name will remind the other woman of her place. 

"You need a night off." Mary's words hang in the air as Zelda tries unsuccessfully to process them, and after a few seconds of this inertia, Mary breaks the spell by reaching out to grab Zelda's hand. "Come with me." 

Mary's voice is warm and inviting, and Zelda allows herself to be led up the grand staircase of her home with little resistance. She suddenly feels gangly and awkward, like either half of the teenage couples in those odious films her sister inexplicably adores. Despite the myriad similarities between herself and Mary, Zelda's conscious that they aren't exactly on an even playing field right now, and she can't figure out why or how to redress the balance. All she knows is that when Mary glances back at her with a somewhat predatory grin, she can't seem to help but respond in kind. 

\--

It's been so long since Zelda's let herself go that she's not quite sure she remembers how to do it, isn't confident she could achieve it if she tried. But ultimately, Mary isn't asking for anything beyond acquiescence, and that… that's something Zelda can provide. This is one aspect of her life that she doesn't have to be in control of – one precious, fragile thing that won't fall apart without her fingerprints all over it – and that long-overdue realization comes on the heels of a blessed sigh of relief. 

Mary heads in the direction of Zelda's bedroom without hesitation, and before Zelda can think to ask how she knows precisely where to go, they're crossing the threshold, at which point the other woman promptly gathers Zelda in her arms and kisses her bruisingly without further preamble. 

Zelda gasps at the contact, revels in the curiously cleansing sensation that sweeps through her body then stills as Mary's frantic fingers divest her of the carefully put-together ensemble she'd painstakingly compiled in this very room that morning. Mary breathes softly over Zelda's bare skin, and it seems to Zelda as if the same elements she'd always resented for not being sharp enough at the edges are now reborn in all their curved, vulnerable glory under Mary's reverent exhalations.

Zelda forgot she ever was this person, the one who likes to be pandered to and told what to do, to obey without question as her course is charted entirely by someone else's hand. And speaking of hands, both of Mary's are grasping her hips roughly enough to hurt, but Zelda doesn't mind. Before she has the chance to fully comprehend what's happening, she feels herself being half-pushed and half-lifted onto the edge of her bed as Mary's lithe body asserts itself insistently at the apex of her thighs. 

Zelda spreads her legs in a daze, leaning into the path of least resistance, and Mary rewards her with a quick nip at the edge of her mouth that makes her feel as if she's bursting into flames. 

"You really just need someone to look after you," Mary purrs into her ear, and although Zelda's not sure she'd be capable of formulating a response regardless, Mary makes absolutely certain that won't happen when she swiftly slides her fingers between the folds of Zelda's cunt. 

Zelda's still relearning how to breathe in the wake of this impertinent but not unwelcome intrusion when Mary eases her backward, splays her across the bed like a snow angel and traces a necklace of kisses across her clavicle. Zelda is determined to keep her eyes open, motivated by a marginally misplaced belief that this will somehow facilitate the retention of whatever shreds of dignity she has left, but then the tendrils of Mary's hair sweep southward across her skin and the other woman whispers, "Close your eyes, darling." 

Zelda does as she's told. 

\--

With Mary's tongue hungrily probing the most intimate parts of her, Zelda barely has the presence of mind to remind herself not to hold her breath for too long. The constellations behind her eyelids shimmer in sequence with Mary's thrusts because, oh, did she mention that the other woman's fingers are still inside her, that now she knows Mary keeps those red-lacquered nails short for distinctly practical purposes?

Presently, Mary murmurs under her breath what might be an incantation or something filthy but may not even be words at all. The mere hum of her voice is enough to set Zelda's every nerve ablaze, every synapse singing until the crescendo inside her builds to climactic proportions before cresting like a wave, slamming through her with enough force to leave her shuddering and spent. 

It seems to Zelda as if all the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room, leaving nothing with which to assuage her urgently gasping lungs. As her heartbeat hammers in her ears, she becomes aware of the fine sheen of sweat covering her skin and gets the strange, incredulous urge to cry.

She doesn't, just opens her eyes for a brief moment, stares up at the ceiling and then closes them again, unable to integrate sight into her already overloaded sensory circuits. She feels Mary's weight join her own on the mattress and can't even find it within her to be self-conscious about the state of whatever makeup managed to remain on her face. One of Mary's hands smooths her hair while the other reaches for her arm – which, to neither woman's surprise, is still trembling palpably. When Mary curls her fingers around Zelda's, they feel slick with Zelda's heat. 

"Better now?" Mary asks huskily, and Zelda loves her and hates her all at once.


End file.
